Whipped
by Ann3
Summary: McKay thinks he's finally found the way to entice our favourite doctor to sit in 'that' Chair. Better think again, Rodney ! Hope you enjoy, please R&R !


WHIPPED !

By Ann3

Summary:- McKay thinks he's found the perfect way to entice our favourite doctor to _that_ Chair.

Think again, Rodney !

Rating:- K+ for Becketty language – oh, and chocolate overload ickiness…

Spoilers:- None, but set in season two for the Daedalus to bring the necessary supplies… ;o)

Disclaimer:- Really wish I owned these wonderful characters... ah, only in my unpaid dreams...

Writer's note: I was lucky enough to meet the lovely Mr McGillion at a convention last year, and he just happened to mention his love of chocolate. Now, if Beckett just happened to feel the same way, and if McKay just happened to find out…

Enjoy – feedback welcome, especially if it's coneshaped and topped with a walnut. And thanks so much, Paul, for the inspiration !

He'd flipped. Gone ga-ga. Lost it. Finally gone off the deepest end that Atlantis had to offer.

Of course, there was no shortage of people on the base who'd come to that conclusion already.

And being the true friend that he was, John Sheppard would _always_ defend him to the absolute hilt – apart from those times, of course, when he, too, joined the ranks of those who believed that Dr Rodney McKay was several fries short of a Happy Meal.

To try and defend him now, though…? Well, even the most loyal of friendships could only go so far.

He was going to regret this, of course. He always did. In fact, it was times like these when he seriously wondered who was the bigger basket case – McKay for dreaming up these crazy schemes, or himself for being dumb enough to ask what they were expected to achieve. And right now, the purpose of their chief scientist's latest trip to la-la land left John Sheppard totally beat.

"Okay, Rodney, I'll bite…" he sighed at last, making a wisely silent mental note to drop in on Heitemeyer after lunch. "Why, exactly, are you laying a trail of Walnut Whips on the floor leading to the Chair Room…?"

"Huh…? What…?" McKay frowned at him, in that charmingly familiar way which always made John feel like _he_ was the one who'd flipped his lid. He was looking shifty too. _Way_ too shifty. And being so urgently gestured at to keep his voice down…? Uh oh, this did _not_ look good.

"Sh… !" the self proclaimed genius finally hissed, with all the subtlety of a Wraith stunner on full blast. "He'll hear you…!"

In the depths of his long suffering mind, John Sheppard counted to ten – then, from the experience of frequently abused patience, on to twenty.

"_Who_'_ll_ hear me, McKay…?" he asked at last, dropping down onto his heels to straighten one slightly misaligned morsel. Quite how its wrapping just happened to get torn open at that point was totally beyond him – he was enjoying the contents too much to think about it.

Still engrossed in his latest fiendish plan for world domination, McKay merely tossed a vague mutter over his shoulder while laying more Whips along the corridor.

"Carson…"

Okay, being, for once, brief and to the point was one thing. Being so infuriatingly vague was quite another.

Of course, saying nothing at all could often be more infuriating still. And the reaction to that meaningful silence was all Sheppard had hoped it would be.

"Yeah, I've finally found a way to get him into the Chair Room without having to use a rope. Apparently he's addicted to Walnut Whips, and… hey…! Damn it, stop eating the bait…!"

His chocolate-smeared face a study of familiar, highly dubious innocence, Sheppard then took his turn in hushing out an urgent warning for quiet.

"Sh…! Sounds like your favourite chocoholic labrat is hot on the trail…"

Sure enough, the telltale sound of ripping cellophane could now be heard from the corridor behind them, coupled with puzzled brogue-ish mutters.

"Bloody strange time for a chocolate hunt… not even Easter…" _rustle_ "…mmmm… forgotten how much I used to love these things…" _rustle_ "…aaaah… bloody addictive too…" _rustle_ "…wonder where they came from…" _rustle_ "…just surprised Rodney hasn't got to these coffee ones first…"

Too buoyed with success to protest at such a slur to his name, McKay quickly pulled a fresh bag of bait from his jacket. With Sheppard's equally gleeful help, the rest of the trail was then laid in double quick speed time until, with just two Whips to spare, they reached their goal. Suitably rewarded (well, it seemed pointless going all the way back to the Commissary with just two Whips left over), these dastardly cohorts in crime then ducked down behind one of the lab benches next to the Chair, and prepared to enjoy the delights of victory.

Just one slight problem now hit this brilliantly fiendish plan. Oh, the main part of it had worked a treat. On the biggest chocolate high in recorded history, by the time Carson realised where that deliciously addictive trail had ended, it was too late. Helplessly trapped in the Chair's humming embrace, the only defiance he could manage against his gleefully gloating captor were dire warnings of revenge for his next physical.

No, the problem was a weakness that Carson Beckett had, understandably, kept wisely to himself.

He loved chocolate. No, more than that, he _worshipped_ chocolate. He'd be willing to sell his soul, his stereo, even his mother's treasured petunias, for its rich, smooth, creamy delights. And when filled with sweetly sticky, fondant goo…? Topped with a walnut…? Oh yes, in those helplessly smitten, big blue eyes, heaven was small and rippled and coneshaped. And made of chocolate.

Unfortunately, chocolate didn't like him. Especially in excessive quantities. And as one foolishly prematurely celebrating scientist was about to discover, bribing Carson Beckett with chocolate really was _not_ a good idea.

Getting him to sit still in 'that bloody death trap' was difficult enough at the best of times. Getting him to sit still in it with a dozen Walnut Whips inside him was downright impossible.

"I think I feel something…" Another pained wince settled on a face that had turned a fetchingly Wraith like green. "It could be chocolate related…"

Pre-warned by the familiar, 'oh, crap…' expression on their CMO's face, Sheppard had already wisely moved several feet away to safety. Still engrossed in his readings, oblivious as always to those plaintive protests, McKay wasn't so sensible. He certainly wasn't so lucky. And his phraseology sucked.

"Yes, well, 'chocolate related' isn't going to help me bring up these schematics, is it…? So just be a good little choc-o-blocked hero, Carson, and… _aaaaagh_…!"

Staring with horror at his now disgustingly soggy, thoroughly ickified left boot, McKay then threw a murderous glare towards its still pitifully groaning source.

"Damn it, Carson, what – that the hell is _that_…?"

Dumb question, of course – now duly treated with the contempt it deserved.

...BLEEEEUGH…

"Looks like a matching pair…" Sheppard supplied helpfully, nodding towards a now equally ickified right boot.

Any sense and sensible person would have resisted the urge to look. So that ruled out Rodney McKay.

"Matching pair…? Oh, cr-"

It was cruel and it was unkind. But there was no way of stopping that evil thought from entering John Sheppard's mind as he watched McKay measure his length against the floor.

'_Timmmm_-**_berrrrrrr_**…!'

"S'rves h'm bloody r'ght…" Carson muttered, the Hippocratic Oath taking an understandable holiday where a certain scientist was concerned. Struggling to keep his own suffering under control, he then turned two still watery eyes towards Sheppard. "Better get a med team down here, lad…" A pause, before the inevitable, ruefully groaned afterthought. "Make that two. And tell them to bring a mop…"

3


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